I’m nine days into my self-proclaimed year of making and I’ve discovered that I don’t give myself enough credit. I am a constant maker. And not in the ways that you’d traditionally think of.
My devotion to everyday making seems to need me to provide pictorial proof of daily making. I’m already an habitual poster of one picture a day to Instagram so I’ve no problem with the daily showing and telling.
The first couple days of the month were taken up with cooking our meals and catering for a special dinner we were having. I rediscovered that I cook a lot more and better than I think I do. Cooking just got taken off the taken for granted list.
Then I realized, part of my regular making is writing and publishing something new at least three times a week. I am compelled to take original photos for everything so I guess my picture-taking making has to represent the writing. That’s a two for one.
And then yesterday, my daily life hit the fan, as it tends to do with a toddler taking your full attention and then refusing to nap. In fact as she’s offering a repeat performance of that now. A poopie diaper trumps a nap and we’re done.
There was honestly and literally not a moment when I was able to think of myself or of creating or making anything. I was woken up at 5:45, robbed of her nap which then forced me to go for a ride to guarantee one, and performed all the other mundanities throughout the day that make me an uber-wife and Mom all while not allowing my brains to erupt all over the walls. But I panicked that I never “made” anything.
But then I changed my mind.
I realized I make a lot of stuff.
I make the bed.
I make the breakfast.
I make decisions constantly.
I make up for lost time.
I make sure the toenails of my children are not disgustingly long.
I make phone calls to straighten up miscommunications and make appointments.
I make sure there’s enough milk.
I make lunch.
I make the laundry clean again.
I make mistakes and then try not to berate myself for doing so.
I make my children laugh.
I make dirt disappear from the bathrooms.
I make dinner.
I make my husband feel guilty.
I make sense of toddler speak.
I make sense of the senseless.
I make my health a priority.
I make no money.
I make sure my children’s hair is washed.
I make my children feel safe.
I make a bed time snack.
I make use of what little time and brain clarity I have left to do something for me.
I make it look easy.
Making sense of my purpose on this planet is easy. It’s these children foremost now. And yet there’s so much more in my soul to make and give and get out of my life. The daily making challenge is my way of upping my consciousness of and my accountability for my creative self. A different perspective is never a bad thing. Practicing the act of creating has given me new permission to be happy.
And lastly, I realize that it’s quite alright if there’s a gap or two in the pictures to this process. That daily picture on Instagram is, in and of itself, an act of making. and this act is for me. But I may have to take some bad pictures for myself here and there to prove I did do this. Process and perfection don’t always need to share a bunk bed.
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And, as always, Thanks to you for your visit.